


Bruises On Roses

by WonderAss



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Foreplay, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Intimacy, Making Love, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Abuse, Roleplay, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sprinkles Of:, Touch-Starved, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 12:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17960231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: When dreams align, it can be as terrifying as it is thrilling. Arthur and Tilly realize one muggy night in Shady Belle they both want a child.





	Bruises On Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Song Inspirations: "Two Hearts" and "Astral Plane" by Valerie June

*

_then they fell_

_two hearts they fell_

_what they felt_

_two hearts they felt_

_like they'd been wishing on a wishing well_

*

"To the future!"

"To our health!"

"To _love!_ "

Beers, flasks and cups are raised to the sky's evening blush. Tilly's laughter rings out with a sweetness that startles even her own ears.

They'd celebrated Sean's return over at Horseshoe. They'd celebrated a successful escape from the Pinkertons. Even when Arthur and Susan brought her back from the Foreman's clutches...they'd celebrated. Quietly, gently, but surely. Pearson made her one of his rare drinks ("It'll put hair on your chest! Not, er...that you'd necessarily _want_ that, of course.") Javier had sat with her later, played 'Mentira' while she finished dishes. Arthur...he'd rubbed her shoulders and talked to her about horse breeds. Sometimes she was so grateful she forgot how to speak. If she could take all those warm, peaceful minutes her family's given her and put them in a chest under lock and key...oh, she _would_.

The bruises around her wrists are starting to fade. The feel of unwanted hands and the grip of her violent past are starting to blur in-between the passing of the usual unusual Van der Linde days. Tilly takes a sip of her beer, letting the chocolate notes sink into the pit of her tongue. Right now it might as well all be a distant, sorry little nightmare. Tonight? They celebrate _life_. That they've all made it this far and still had each other. She'd missed Jack's welcome home party and she _won't_ miss this one. John is already on his second beer, and he reaches over to give her shoulder a reassuring pat on his way over to Pearson. Tilly smiles at him, tells him to watch his step, and tries to hold onto the overripe squeezing that sometimes comes with too much love.

Mary-Beth and Karen dance a lady-like pirouette by the fire, hand-in-hand. Javier hums and croons wordless notes, one of his many half-grown songs being tested out on his family first before being whittled into something more devout. Fireflies have seen fit to dance, too. They float all around them like dandelion tops, winking and fading like the light strings in Saint Denis. It takes her breath away. Jack squeals and laughs as he tries to catch them, Uncle and Susan cheering him on from where they lounge by the tables. She's working down the last gulp of her beer when the boy runs up to her, hands clasped together.

"Miss Tilly, look! Look, I _caught_ one." His face crumples when he opens his hands and peeks inside. "Oh..."

Tilly leans down, folding her arms over her knees and studying the smushed firefly, fitfully blinking out its last light.

"You gotta be gentle with them, Jack. They're not very big." She ruffles his hair. "Kind of like you."

She's a little tipsy from the beer (which _better_ not put hair on her chest), so she makes sure to linger by the fire as she leads Jack on the proper way to capture a firefly. The boy watches as attentively as a student as she hovers both hands in the air, waiting for one of the stars to fall into her grasp. There are so many it's only a matter of time. A brief thought breezes through the warm humming of her blood that this might be what it's like to dance among the stars, when such a thing becomes possible. Tilly hardly feels it even when she cups her fingers into a bumpy little ball around a particularly tiny little firefly, watching instead the glow peeking between her knuckles to confirm her catch.

" _Wow..._ " Jack breathes, dancing in place. "You're so _good_. Can I see?"

"I've had a little practice." Tilly chuckles, crouching as carefully as she's able with her hands occupied. "Fragile little things have to be tended to carefully." She places her hands over Jack's, letting the bug crawl into his palms. "You shouldn't chase them. You shouldn't be rough, even if you're really, _really_ excited. Just let them come to you and be...gentle."

"Okay." Jack whispers. He cups his hands carefully and wanders off to no doubt show one of his elders his gift. When Tilly looks back up she glimpses another fragile little thing. Arthur's smile, glowing in the light of the fire from where he's settled down by the campfire.

It only grows softer when she makes her way over, careful not to trip on stray beer bottles.

"How are things on the other side, Arthur?" She asks, a giddy swell in her chest. He left early this morning on a job, little more than a few delivery runs, but it was always a question whether or not he'd come back. Didn't matter what. Arthur grunts and takes a deep drink of his beer, waving her close with a flick of his free hand. Tilly drifts closer, but remains standing. Not because she _doesn't_ want to be in his lap, but having him eager for her attention is one of her favorite little things.

"Sweaty, tired and smelly." He pulls off the bottle with a smack and a happy sigh, licking the rest from his lips. " _Mostly_ smelly, 'cause I'm sitting next to Uncle." He adds, reaching around her leg to cup the back of her knee, tugging a little. "You smell a lot better, though."

"Not much competition..." Tilly sighs, stiff as a tree trunk, holding her elbow in one hand and looking off somewhere in the distance. Arthur sputters a little. Lets go and stares up at her, trying to figure out if she's joking or not. "...but I suppose it'll do."

She doesn't go too far with the act. Arthur is more sensitive than he lets on, and when teased too hard it made him _really_ believe he was the regrettable nuisance he painted in his head. Tilly gathers up her dress without preamble and sits in his lap, skin thrilling when he plays a steadying hand on the low of her back.

"Must've been a hard day for you, too." He takes another drink, Adam's apple bobbing with each deep gulp. "Acting all...shady." He snickers ridiculously, that little lisp he has all the more prominent from the drink. "A shady belle."

"Pft. You already _made_ that joke." Tilly scoffs, trying so very hard not to lose her head at the sight of this big, broad man dissolving into a giggle fit over a play on words. He had two hollow legs, though. Some of this is the beer, sure, but some of it is his usual way of loosening up around those he loves, unraveling like a pulled string from an old blanket. One way or another this man betrays how much he misses home when he's gone. How much he needs his people. Arthur blinks slowly at that, bluebell eyes drifting over her shoulder for a moment. Then his face falls.

"Oh. That's right." He clears his throat, huffs and ducks his head to hide his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "...I'm getting boring."

"Far from it." Tilly plucks the bottle from his hands and swirls it. A sip or two left. "Just silly."

She downs the rest, enjoying Arthur's shameless stare and the warm, reassuring weight of his thumb stroking her spine. Pearson offers them shots of whiskey; she turns him down politely, but Arthur takes one, tossing it back and hissing a happy sound through his nose. Yes...it's been a rough day. She can't catch any blood stains, but the worst hurts were sometimes invisible.

Sean stands on a box and sings an Irish ditty so off-key she has to double-check the empty bottle in her hand for cracks. Javier sticks a gloved pinky in his ear, wiggles it around like he's in actual pain. All night long they trade glances. Little curled smiles that flicker between the fairy lights. It's like a puff of dandelion on the breeze, one tiny fluff puff after another gathering and gathering until the air is full of it. Arthur is starting to peter out a little. He bobs and hums to the songs, mutters under his breath, but his usual long, hard day is like a jacket. More than once she catches his eyelids flickering. She might just have to hold _him_ up.

"Think it's time you tucked in." Tilly murmurs, gliding knuckles along his scruffy cheek. Arthur leans into her touch automatically, eyes still closed.

"Mm-hmm." He hums when she cups his chin and rubs the stubble there. He'd never admit it outright, but he likes being scratched like a tired old dog. "Nice night, though."

"Sure it is. We'll have another, though."

They wish everyone well (though how well they'll be with Sean still singing, she's not _quite_ so sure) and slip into the silence of their broken house.

Bone tired as he is, he perks up once they step into the close, musty shadow of the borrowed home. The floorboards betray their intentions with squeaks, even as they pad up the old velvet stair coverings. Someday, if someday ever came, she'd want crushed velvet gracing _her_ home. Fuzzy peace beneath every footstep. The opposite of what they have now, and more beautiful than so many with money realized. Arthur keeps his hand on the small of her back up the staircase, then steps up to open the door for her, ushering her in first like one of those very prissy ladies.

"After you, sweetheart."

Tilly rolls her eyes and gives his chest a light smack.

"What, I can't be a gentleman to such a fine lady?" He burrs, crooked smile pleased and open now that they were shuttered away from nosy eyes. Tilly pinches her red dress between thumb and forefinger, lifts it up and bobs a curtsy.

"Well, thank you _very_ much, kind sir."

Arthur's smoky chuckle ripples sparks up her skin. She still dances out of his grasp, though, keeping up the silly little game and gliding into his room.

This is one they've played more times than she can count: the hopelessly romantic young woman and the gentleman suitor, meeting through pure happenstance and being so utterly blindsided they can hardly maintain their social cues. She calls it the 'Dilly-Dally', though she'd _never_ tell Arthur that. She prefers the way they naturally they slip into these little roles. They act almost like children, make-believing in secret hours when the rough-and-tumble days are too rough to bear. Arthur clicks the door shut behind them, then reaches over to the gaslamp on the lone chair, turning it on almost as low as a firefly.

Tilly sits on the very edge of his small cot, wedged between three walls more like a cupboard than a bed. Tucks her ankles side-by-side with her hands in her lap. Picture pretty.

"...Lovely place you have here." She says, feigning new curiosity as her eyes roam up and down the walls. The wallpaper isn't that bad, really. It's a delicate little ornate pattern, white on red. It's just the whole 'dilapidated and crumbling' aspect that gets in the way of it. Arthur's chuckle rumbles deep in his chest.

"It does the trick."

He tugs at his belt, unbuckles it and slides it out, the sound sharp and full of promise in the close room. Sets down his gun, then tugs off his ascot. His eyes never leave her.

"Sorry about the paint chips on the floor." He tugs off one glove. "Broken glass in the corner, swept that, but..." He pulls off the other, setting them atop his belt. His smile grows playful. "...don't have a dustbin."

"We'll have to buy one, then." Tilly counts the scars on his knuckles, anticipation pricking hot and sweet in the center of her chest. "Put it at the top of our list for our new home."

Butterflies kick up in her stomach, then. Telling her the game is hitting a little too close to...well, _home_. Arthur is Arthur. He goes straight for humor to cover up the fluttering in him, no doubt.

"Even more important than the, uh, ottoman?"

"If I have to pick between putting up my feet or stepping on glass, I _think_ I'll manage."

He chuckles again, a helpless, rolling sound that almost turns into a wheeze. Tilly tries to keep composure, but it's hard when he laughs like that, looks like that. Almost...young, even with all those lines around his eyes. A sudden thought crops up: a quip about how a filthy floor is no place for a baby's first steps...but she snuffs it out immediately. It...isn't right, yet. Maybe not ever. The catch in her act has gone on too long, though. He's studying her with a tilt to his head, one she can almost feel in these close walls.

"Nothing's more important than a velvet rug, though." Tilly tries, straightening her back and pretending to cast another, more critical eye around the little room. "It really brings the whole place together." She looks back to him, and her voice grows faint. "Every time I see it...it just..."

The words wither to rest on her tongue. Her heart beats faster than a horse trot. It's not the first time Arthur's stared at her like a sunset...but it's the first time she's truly struck _dumb_ by it. His voice is pure rum. Dark and silky with promise.

"I'll keep that in mind, Miss Tilly."

This game...doesn't have a name.

Arthur doesn't get to his knees and lean his lips against her navel, the lustful cracks in his romantic veneer growing thick as welts, whispering secrets into her skin for her to hold forever. He doesn't take her by one hand and pull her back to her feet, either, rotating slowly with an arm around her waist to Javier's guitar strings somewhere in the distance. She resists the urge to wring her fingers at these new steps in a familiar dance.

Arthur steps in close, swallowing the light from the lone lamp and bathing her in black. Tilly's eyes flicker closed when he leans down to press his broad hands on either side of her hips, head dipping down over her shoulder to push warm, slightly chapped lips against her cheek. Then up a little, beneath her eye. A soft, careful trail of kisses. Even now, even though they started taking steps through new territory for almost a year now, she feels like a girl, all helpless and elated, heart so hot and full it could pop into a firecracker scatter.

She knows he feels something similar. Arthur is a _good_ man, even though he'd never admit to it, and head-over-heels affection has him drunk. He's mouthing her earlobe now, delicate and slow, barely any teeth. The only clue he's fluttering, too, is his breath. It's a breezy tremble against her skin, shallow with want, all his eternal doubts. Tilly's fingers squeeze tight as he picks his way down the side of her neck, bunching the fabric tight beneath her palms as he flicks out a tongue and searches for the sweat of the day. Arthur stops only when the top of his hat bumps against her chin. Her heart does feel like it's bursting now, so fond it makes her eyes sting. He always forgets to take it off.

Tilly reaches up and takes it, a few loose hairs pulling golden in the low light. She reaches over and sets it on the corner of the old vanity by the window. Arthur's face presses to her breast as she does, and he kisses there now, firm and eager. She leans her back against the wall a little, returns her hands to her lap, even as she wants so badly to unravel him. This is just... _different_. She doesn't know how or why yet, but her skin has been skittering with it ever since he returned to camp, every pound of her heart heavy and thumping, and she needs to wait. Needs to know. Arthur mutters his thanks, taking the taper of her green shawl's knot in his teeth and jerking his head back with one tug, then another. The knot is loose. It pulls open and falls to the bed easily.

Arthur slides a hand up her chest, tugs open the buttons to her top down to the last, then nuzzles his nose in and licks her breast. Her fingers twitch with the instinct to help, but she's frozen where she is, fascinated by his delicacy as if it were the first time. The man's blue eyes flick up to her, then. Brow crinkling with worry. Asking her if she's all right, if he's okay, if he can keep going or if they'll flick the night off, then and there. Tilly smiles, just for him, and his brow grows smooth again. Without hesitation he buries his face into her chest, takes a nipple in his mouth. It's warmer in the swamps, but even the most sweltering and muggy days here feel like nothing.

He sucks until she's hard, pulls on the nub with his teeth. When she finally makes noise, a petal soft pant, he presses a hand to the small of her back and leans her down onto the bed.

More than once...she dreaded the idea of another man on top of her. Enough to make her want to burn those novels Mary-Beth loves so much, swear off the notion of romantic love entirely. It was never anything she admitted to anybody. She would croon over penny dreadfuls, wink and smile while out on the town, but at too young an age...she'd learned to dread love, in secret. To fear touch, to hate attention. Now...now it was her waking _dream_. All hers, precious as spring, and the only thing she had to do was reach out to take it. Arthur still checks; he pulls back just enough for their eyes to meet, and only keeps kissing and suckling when she nods. His eyes flick up to hers every so often, still. Bluebell whispers.

Tilly pets his head, and her heart aches when he leans again into her hand. Hungry for even the tiniest of touches.

"So handsome." She whispers. Now Arthur looks down, a hasty blush he can't quite tuck away. He scoffs, softly...and presses his head to her hand again. Pleased...and shy.

"Sure." He says. Never anything more, or anything less.

Her heart kicks up like a drum as he tugs off her top, lets her help in unbuckling her bra, but only just. He's gentle as he pushes her hands back down, insistent on treating her the part of the princess, or some such romantic role. Tilly nibbles her lip and smiles helplessly all the while. Arthur sucks on her other nipple now, rolls it between his teeth, the wet sound of lips on skin plucking like a string. He pulls off wetly, moves to the other, this time with a soft, eager hum in the back of his throat. That electricity that's been plucking the fine hairs on her skin skitters again. Shivers down to the pit of her stomach like a hot toddy drop, hot and wonderful.

The belt goes. The dress whispers to the floor. Tilly shivers only on impulse, even though Arthur's mouth is so, _so_ warm. He breathes heavier, pretending to be a furnace as well as a gentleman, she supposes, and she can't help the giggle in her chest. She tries to trap it in a gentle cupping like the frogs she caught as a child or the firefly she gave to jack, but it slips out, anyway. Arthur pauses in his journey down. Oh, she needs to stop! She's making him too nervous, making him doubt himself as he so readily does...but then she feels his smile on her skin, wide and sweet, and she sinks back down to bliss.

Each new kiss is beautiful. Each rasp of stubble makes her skin bunch, a little painful. She wonders if she'll always feel this way with him. God, she _hopes_ so. Like biting into a tart pie or having a stiff muscle pushed soft again by a determined hand...not everything that stings is bad. By the time he's reached her thighs she's most definitely a naive barely woman again, twitching with impatience. Arthur may love to tease her, but he's not cruel. He minds her thick hair as he thumbs her apart, drags a scorching tongue up, then in, and she falls apart.

The close room amplifies every sound; the wet click of his tongue leaving and returning, the aborted moans in the back of his throat as he explores her. Even as she writhes and shivers against the blankets...it tickles, in the back of her mind.

Like a blade of grass in her nose, light and tiny and impossible to ignore. His constant checking for approval, the tentative notes in-between kisses. She's been a little _too_ passive. She's already unfolded. It's her turn to take the lead. Tilly reaches down and threads fingers through Arthur's hair. The man pulls off with a soft grunt, body rigid with the rest of the question. When she presses fingers on the back of his head he crawls up and over her. The sound he makes when she cups his face in both hands and kisses him...oh, even Mary-Beth's _novellas_ couldn't compare.

It's a risk. She knows it. She won't say it just yet, not when there's something romantic about the quiet blanketing them, the muffled laughter and music outside and below. She's thought about it, though. Many times. So... _many_ times. It's another one of her dreams, even when she told herself no more. No more of wanting the impossible, think of the day, of chores and the fine folk she's been lucky enough to fall alongside. Arthur has made her stubborn. Stubborn _and_ greedy. He knows what she's asking when she slides one hand down his back, holds him firm and rocks their hips together.

Arthur rocks back, on instinct...then his breath _hitches_ when the deeper meaning sinks in. Sucks in and shakes in his chest. She's never felt him so hard, or heard him so soft.

"Tilly..." It's the first he's spoken in what already feels like days. His voice is ragged, almost tattered. He's tangling up in his worry for her, for them, and for once she has to rescue him. "You...?"

"It's okay." She whispers. "I...want to." Her throat catches, and she swallows it down, cradles all that it means. "I really do."

What is she doing? She's asking for something, giving permission for _something_ , but that dream is too lofty, too high up. Even if she jumped for it she's not sure she could reach. A thin thread of fear winds through her night. For a moment she wishes she kept her mouth shut.

"Do you..." Tilly starts. The fear only lasts a moment, because Arthur kisses her, a slow, deep kiss that steals the air from her lungs.

"God, yes." He whispers it into her mouth, hot whisky and tobacco flowers. "God, _yes_."

Arthur shrugs out of his shirt, then his pants, the heat of him prickling goosebumps up her skin. His boots clump on the floor, then there's nothing between them, nothing but warm skin and trust. He touches her, first. Sucks on two fingers, reaches between her thighs to stroke her practiced and easy from their afternoons playing hooky. He curls them in, readying her, even though she's starting to realize she's been ready for a while now. Then he curls over her, slides up where she's wet, and checks with her one more time before sinking inside. At first...it hurts. Or, she _thinks_ it does. It's thicker than even his thick fingers, he's pressed so much closer, the sheer weight and size of him less charming and more shocking, and even the wish he breathed out in the room just minutes ago doesn't knock her quite this _hard_.

Arthur mutters honey into her ear, rubbing the back of her neck in a constant circle. Doing things...they never did to her, when it happened the first, second and third time.

Tilly wills the ice in her spine to melt. Stares at the crack winding its way through the ceiling, counts its edges. He keeps rubbing the back of her neck, a slow rolling that centers her to him. His forehead stays pressed against hers. The man's breathing is measured, attention firmly on her and not himself. She's _grateful_. So grateful her eyes sting again, sharp as a needle. She doesn't want this all about her, she wants it about _them_. Tilly hooks legs past his hips, curls feet over the small of his back, clenches around him. Arthur _groans_ , forehead slipping to rest by her ear. He rolls his hips, buries himself inside her with each thrust, hoarse breath catching with it.

Breath by breath, beat by beat...the ache of bad memories rubs away. Instead of a gang she wish she never met her mind relishes in the way Arthur fills her. Seems to stroke every part of her that's good, that's _right_. The heavy, sharp tang of cigarettes and beer and leather, overwhelming and making her head spin. How he buries his nose against her neck and _breathes_ , like he'll drown otherwise. Tilly digs nails into his back and he responds with a growl that ripples through his body, her neck arching without her permission as he moves faster, harder, _deeper_. Rutting hard enough to bounce her, even with his heavy body pinning her down and muffling the turn of the world.

She never wants this to end. Tilly whispers as much into his skin, a confession that would embarrass her any other time. Arthur's mouth hovers by her ear, heaving an answer under his breath-

" _God_ , I want to have a baby with you."

-and her eyes open again.

For a second she's not on this bed anymore. She's a year ahead. Two years, maybe, though she's learned not to measure her lives in that metric. But his voice pushes her regardless. Nudges her up that hill and beyond the crest of hope, where she shields her eyes and looks below at the life she's always wanted to build. A long picket fence decorated with dried flowers and painted clay pots. Her family pulling up on horseback to visit for the weekend, waving by the road. A tiny girl with a bow in her curls and a familiar crooked smile bunching her cheeks, squealing and chasing chickens through the field while everyone around her lives and laughs and loves.

"... _Shit._ "

Arthur's chest is still heaving, but his face is frozen still.

"I-I'm so _sorry_."

Arthur isn't the type of man to scare easy. She's known him for years, knows the good _and_ bad he can do as easy as striking a match...and she's never seen him as terrified as he is right now. The lantern light is almost out, the room filled more with the moonlight than candlelight, but somehow she can make out every single painful line in his face. Killing and thieving has never left this look on him. A look like _all_ the worst things in the world have come to pass and he's little more than a bystander. Watching it all crumble to pieces in the palm of his hands.

"Shit." He whispers, again, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. " _Shit_."

"Arthur." She can feel the world within her. Within them both, but it's so hard to speak. She grips his hands tight, tries to put meaning into that, because she can't have him running away now. Not yet. Not- "Wait, I..."

"I don't want to..." He tries, again...then bows his head. "Oh."

He's still in her, still holding onto her, because he truly doesn't want to let go. Somehow he can sense she doesn't want him to, but his instinct in these times is always to buckle. He's tugging against the reins of his self-loathing, grinding on the bit and bleeding in his attempt to free himself. This poor man tears himself down, sweeps himself away before anyone can even realize what's _broken_. She knows what Arthur means. He doesn't want her to feel pressured or obligated to be with him. As if that's what happened with Eliza. With Mary. He simply got dealt bad hands, but he blames _himself_ , because he's the only constant thing throughout all of it.

When they first met he'd been a young man. She was barely into womanhood. The first time he'd scared her -- because _every_ man had a first time -- it had been like she'd shot him point blank herself. It had been a minor thing, in retrospect: just a night around the campfire where he snapped at Dutch, raised his voice next to her unaware of what that sort of sound _did_ to her. When the Tilly back then had all but dropped her bowl of food and fled off into the night his voice cracked after her much as it's doing now. He bore this wound for weeks afterward. ...Months. After that night...he never yelled around her if he could help it. He growled instead. Maybe snapped under his breath, sometimes muttered.

To be truly sorry was a gift to be shown, not told...and he apologized every single time he held a hand out to her and called her miss.

Arthur stares in rapt silence as Tilly shakes her head. Shakes and shakes and _shakes_ it, eyes stinging for a third time, and this time delivering on their promise of rain. What a wicked life it is, that a man this gentle and this bare would think so little of the gifts he gives. Perhaps it wasn't wise or...timely, or careful, or compassionate to want a child now, but when would they _ever_ be ready? Jack was loved, so very loved. As was she and Javier and John and Arthur, taught the language of love by Dutch and Hosea. Her child would be cherished, without so much as a _day_ of doubt. She knows that.

She didn't have quite the way with prose Dutch or Mary-Beth does, but her mind is still filled with _beauty_ , an intangible greatness she feels she could reach out and thread through her fingers like Arthur's dusty gold hair. She's fallen asleep to thoughts of this man a year or two from now, tossing their newborn into air filled with shared laughter. She's dreamt of coming to a small cabin home and seeing him sitting crosslegged on the porch with their child, tugging tangles out of their hair while they wriggle impatiently. Dutch taught her to want things, but actually getting them...oh, it's so much _different_. It's a whole world of difference.

Dreams could be protected, even if they never came true. A good thing she can _hold_ , though...and she's aware of how weak and trifling she really can be. When she sniffles Arthur starts to pull away. Tilly holds on. Wraps both arms around his neck and hugs him.

"Don't apologize for wanting what I want." She whispers against his cheek, and for a second she's sure she feels his heart skip. "Apologize for anything else, but _never_ that."

"I _have_ to make sure." He rasps, clutching her back in a grip that almost bruises. He kisses her ear, firmly, then her hairline, then her brow. "I have to. What we got is good, Tilly, and I ain't about to wreck it over this. No matter how...how _bad_ I want it, I _ain't_."

"I know. I know." She assures, nods far too much. Then she asks, because if there's any uncertainty between them, _any_ at all, it'll collapse their home before they've built one brick. "...Do you trust me?"

His fear is a fragile little thing. It was small, not seen by many, but it could be snuffed out with a press of the thumb. Arthur's voice is hoarse. It shakes.

"Yes."

She cups him. He holds her. For a moment they say nothing. Then they move again...slowly.

Carefully.

Patiently.

They've danced on the edge too many times. He feels incredible, thick and warm in the pit of her stomach, but she needs more. Tilly squirms, whispers in his ear to let her turn over. Arthur tugs out and leans up just enough for her to roll onto her stomach. A pocket of cold works between them, makes her shiver, then he's wrapping around her like one of her many shawls. One broad, rough hand hikes up her hip, just enough so he can slip back inside, and they both _sigh_.

She's already consumed with the ache to face him, kiss him, but Arthur makes up for it. He hooks his chin over her shoulder and captures her mouth in his. She's still a little clumsy, still shaking from all they've unfolded in this little room, and burns with embarrassment when her teeth clack against his. He only growls affectionately, tilts his head a little, slots them together until they're huffing through their noses and rocking up and down, up and down, up and down. Each stroke is sweet, sharp. Pops of pleasure that makes her whimper suddenly. Tilly presses her thighs together, basks in the thick _drag_ of him, and Arthur's voice crackles against her temple.

" _Oh, sweetheart_."

His careful restraint crackles, too. Splits and pops like dry leather, starting with a bite on her shoulder, still not too rough, then a sharp thrust. Then he's moving faster, fast enough the old cot is creaking its own music and she can barely hear over the pounding of her heart. Then he thrusts a little _too_ deep, makes her _gasp_ and buck up against his chest. Arthur whispers a hasty apology into her curls, leans down his weight to bury her back into the blankets again. He takes the hand gripping the pillow by the wrist and pulls it beneath her chin. Drapes his other arm around her. Tucking her in. Folding her, beneath him and against him, protecting her against everything, even her own doubts.

Tilly is burning up, and still she shivers as Arthur pants into her skin, rhythmic huffs and puffs that are already planting seeds in her dreams.

"When all this is over...when we finally get enough..." The _conviction_ in his voice-"...I'm going to get you a house. Buy, build, don't matter." His words strain knot tight, crumble into an animal groan behind his teeth. He pushes in until his hipbones are digging into her, not thrusting but grinding- "I'm going to get you land. I'm going to get you a handmade kitchen table and a flower garden. I'm going to get you whatever you want."

It's not these dreamy promises that makes her heart clench like a fist and shakes the air out of her. It's that she knows he means it. That he actually _will_. Men have promised her so many things, most of them wretched, and _this_. This undoes any composure she thought she had left. Tilly bites her lip and buries her face into the pillow.

"I don't..." She tries, with what breath she has left. "That's not...that's not why you matter to me, Arthur, that's-"

"You deserve the _world_." He's trying to talk around the gasps, too, but they're finally crumbling apart together. Chips of old dirt and vines tugging and popping off a wheel. Spinning now, blurring into romantic motion. "Oh, sweetheart, if I could wrap it all in a box and put it at your feet..."

He trails off, kisses her tears away. Startling as he always is, tender even as he groans open-mouthed into her hair. There are no more words. Just the bounce and sway of their bodies, the slick slapping of skin. Everything smells of him, _feels_ of him, Arthur on her and in her and floating through her lungs like smoke. It's too much, and just enough, and she quakes, clenches and _whines_ as her climax shivers through her. Arthur snakes a hand beneath her, pets her stomach, a moment before he swells and twitches inside her, warm and lovely. She's sure, even as her head buzzes and threatens to float her through the roof, she could lay here forever and be content.

Arthur keeps his hand there even as he rolls off to let the sweat on their bodies cool. Strokes a thumb over her belly, dipping it in and out of her navel...like he's already in love, all over again.

It's quieter outside now. Crickets chirp, mingling with what sounds like Abigail and John murmuring on the porch below. The lantern is out, but she can catch a hint of those fireflies. Snow drifting up. Stars lifting.

Tilly excuses herself to dress. One part of her wants to doze and cuddle. Another wants to run into the night, shawl flapping around her shoulders. She's not having second thoughts. It's just...her world is suddenly sideways and she hasn't caught her balance yet. Arthur mumbles concern, reaches for her hip to hold, if not quite take. At first she thinks to smile, but...that's not why she's with him. She doesn't have to fake things for this man. She never has. Tilly swallows the urge to please, lets her fingers twine together. Struggles and tries, against her oldest instinct, to let drip her nerves and fears as she stands bare by the window.

"...I used to dream a lot. I thought I knew better." Tilly whispers, covering her breasts instinctively, even though it's too dark for anyone to see much of anything. "The higher you go, the harder you fall, right? You...you mean too much to me for me to do that, and I...I got _selfish_. Wishing and hoping bruises a person, Arthur. I won't cover you in them."

"I don't believe that. Not for one second."

The old, rotting floorboards mutter once, twice. Then Arthur is turning her from the window to face him, cradling her face in both hands. His hair is mussed, wispy over his forehead.

"You dream more than any of us, Miss Tilly. Strength isn't...it's not..." He breathes in through his nose, sighs it out like a cigarette drag. "It's not just facing down the barrel of a gun. Hunting, killing, any of that. It's...hoping against all _reason_. Stubbornly sticking to what could be better and holding it to your chest even when people try to rip it away. It's the bravest thing I can think of." His thumb slides up to pet the little scar on her left cheek. "Don't you ever stop dreaming. I'll take these bruises, happily, because they'll just remind me of _you_."

Tilly covers his hands in hers. She can't stop her mouth from trembling. She doesn't even try.

"What if I slow everyone down if we have to run again?" It comes out of her like a punch. "I won't have anyone killed over me."

"We managed with Abigail." He responds, instantly. "I ain't saying it's ideal, but it ain't impossible, neither."

"What if I don't make it?"

"...Every day could be our last. Even now, we're hunted. Surrounded by gators and hicks and bad weather. The odds ain't new." He butts his forehead to hers, still sticky with sweat. That soft growl enters his voice again, the low, protective timbre she's known for years. "I'll take care of you. You have my word."

"What if..." She swallows hard. "...I'm not good enough after all? That all the things I want...I won't do them _true?_ "

Tilly presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, face screwing up with the weight of it all when Arthur just kisses the very top of her head.

"...Nah." He drawls, a low and affectionate burr into her hair. "Not a _chance_."

Even if she were the gambling type...these are odds she can live with.

"You know I feel the same about you?" She says, because if there's something she can do without overthinking, it's lifting those she loves up where they belong. Arthur shifts a little.

"...Yeah." He mumbles, eventually. He doesn't scuff his heel on the floor, but it's in his voice. "I know."

"Do you believe me?"

"I..." He scoffs a laugh, then sobers suddenly, terribly. "It ain't about believing you, or _not_ , it's just..."

Tilly wraps arms around his neck. Trickles fingers over the freckles she's counted before, during sunnier hours.

"...It's okay to admit you're afraid."

Arthur bows his head. Hangs it, like he's been scolded, even though he's just scolding himself. Nods and nods. At first he smiles a little, ruefully, then it drops and his mouth rolls, quivers. Old, dry tears he's already cried a long time ago that can't quite take root right now. Maybe later. Probably later.

"I am afraid." He whispers. He clears his throat, nods again. "...I'm _terrified_."

They've all been scared and alone, in one way or another. Except Arthur fought tooth and nail to make _that_ a distant dream, too. When Anthony Foreman cornered her in Valentine Arthur was there. Again when she was too afraid to ride her horse outside Clemens Point without someone by her side. Again...when the Foremans trussed her up like cattle and tried to deliver her back at Hell's doorstep. She hadn't even told Arthur what happened to make them seek her to the ends of the Earth. So much has changed between them...yet, _this_ thing, this... _trust_...never has.

Not the once.

"Whatever happens...I'll be here. I believe in you." She tries to peer up to his face, but it's shadowed, too low for her to cup. "Always have."

Arthur doesn't speak for a minute. Then a few more. As silent and far away as a gas lamp on a cobblestone strip. Then he slowly looks up again. She catches it. That gap between a firefly blink. That split second where, for a second, he _does_ believe her...then goes back to being his usual Arthur, hating himself and loving everybody. Tilly turns around and presses her back to his chest, reaching around to take his arms and hook them around her waist. He settles into the position easily. His scruffy chin presses prickly sweet against her bare shoulder, his sigh as relaxed as she's ever heard it. Another night they can talk about more dreamy things like baby names and campfire announcements and little cabins with painted fences. Dreaming is hard work. Right now...it's enough to be.

"Suppose we'll have to practice being parents." Tilly says around a yawn. "Get in some proper training on being a mother."

"Me, too." Arthur murmurs, then snorts. "Er. Father. You know what I mean."

Yes. She does. Tilly reaches down to where Arthur's hand has again drifted to her belly, knitting their fingers together there. Watching the last of Shady Belle's stars drift up in an impossible journey to their kin above.

*

_dreaming a dream_

_of sweeter things great or small_

_dancing on the astral plane_

_holy water, cleansing rain_

_floating through the stratosphere_

**Author's Note:**

> These two are so tender I could goddamn melt. I'm overdue in writing fic for them. I wanted to indulge in something sweet and hopeful; not without its bumps and bruises, but...hopeful.
> 
>  also tilly's age is a little vague in-game, but I just assumed her to be a twenty-something like karen and mary-beth


End file.
